Friday, September 7, 2012


Being a Marlins fan is ehausting enough, what with all the injuries and the losing and the John Buck, but now it's getting to the point where even defending your being a Marlins fan is a fucking chore. There was a time when being a Marlins fan was enough, when there were seven of us and we would show up to games and people from other cities would see us and be all, "Oh hey, Marlins fans. They do exist. Cool." But now, that's not enough. Now people are like, "Sure, they got all these new fans, but they're such fucking assholes."

Case in point:

Tom Scocca of Deadspin created a nifty chart in order to help you determine if you deserve a foul ball (hint: you don't), but I'd like to hammer this point home in my own words, if you don't mind. Follow along.

You're a grown man, a married man, with kids, and you're just meeting a new couple. You all go out to dinner and then go back to your house for some coffee. They enter the house and you proceed to give them the tour...

"This is a picture of me, with my parents, the day I graduated from law school. This is our wedding picture. And this is a picture of my son, the day he was born. Cute, right? And this is a foul ball that was tossed to me by the Marlins third base coach in the hundred and thirty-fifth game of the regular season last year."

This is not okay.

No, seriously, as a grown man, what exactly are you going to do with that baseball? It wasn't a memorable moment. It wasn't a significant event in history. It wasn't a home run. Hell, it wasn't even a foul ball that you caught; it was fucking soft-tossed to you by a ball boy. (Though, I'd argue that even if you caught the foul ball yourself, you still have no business keeping it.) There is literally nothing you can do with that ball that would be better than giving it to the nearest child. Nothing. At all.

When I was, like, 17, I caught a batting practice ball and it's been in my closet ever since. Why? Because I've never, ever, ever, ever, in the history of me telling the story of catching that ball, felt the need to prove it by removing the ball from the closet. It adds nothing to the story. It adds nothing to the memory. It's a fucking baseball that I did nothing to earn.

So, please, if we're going to make this whole fan thing work down here, we're going to have to learn one simple rule: if you're a formed adult, and the baseball you catch isn't (a) a record-breaking home run ball, (b) coated in unicorn semen, or (c) all of the above, turn around and hand it to the nearest child. Not only will you be making that child's day, but you won't wind up looking like an asshole on televsion.

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